Picked some lint, now I think; perhaps

Knitted some stocking-a dozen nearly; Havelocks made for the soldiers' caps; Stood at fair tables and peddled traps Quite at a profit. The "shoulder-straps" Thought I was pretty. Ah, thank you! really?

Those were the sounds of that battle summer,
Till the earth seemed a parchment round and flat,
And every footfall the tap of a drummer;
And day by day down the Avenue went
Cavalry, infantry, all together,

Till my pitying angel one day sent
My fate in the shape of a regiment,
That halted, just as the day was spent,

Here at our door in the bright June weather.

None of your dandy warriors they,

Men from the West, but where I know not; Haggard and travel-stained, worn and grey, With never a ribbon or lace or bow knot: And I opened the window, and leaning there,

I felt in their presence the free winds blowing; My neck and shoulders and arms were bareI did not dream that they might think me fair, But I had some flowers that night in my hair,

And here, on my bosom, a red rose glowing.

And I looked from the window along the line,
Dusty and dirty and grim and solemn,
Till an eye like a bayonet flash met mine,

And a dark face grew from the darkening column,

VOL. I.

D

And a quick flame leaped to my eyes and hair,
Till cheeks and shoulders burned all together,
And the next I found myself standing there
With my eyelids wet and my cheeks less fair,
And the rose from my bosom tossed high in air,
Like a blood-drop falling on plume and feather.

Then I drew back quickly: there came a cheer,
A rush of figures, a noise and tussle,

And then it was over, and high and clear

My red rose bloomed on his gun's black muzzle.
Then far in the darkness a sharp voice cried,
And slowly and steadily, all together,
Shoulder to shoulder and side to side,
Rising and falling, and swaying wide,
But bearing above them the rose, my pride,
They marched away in the twilight weather.

And I leaned from my window and watched my rose Tossed on the waves of the surging column, Warmed from above in the sunset glows,

Borne from below by an impulse solemn.
Then I shut the window. I heard no more
Of my soldier friend, my flower neither,
But lived my life as I did before.

I did not go as a nurse to the war-
Sick folks to me are a dreadful bore-

So I didn't go to the hospital either.

You smile, O poet, and what do you?

You lean from your window, and watch life's column Trampling and struggling through dust and dew,

Filled with its purposes grave and solemn ;

An act, a gesture, a face-who knows?—

Touches your fancy to thrill and haunt you, And you pluck from your bosom the verse that And down it flies like my red, red rose,

And you sit and dream as away it goes,

grows,

And think that your duty is done-now don't you?

I know your answer.

I'm not yet through.

Look at this photograph-" In the Trenches!"

That dead man in the coat of blue

Holds a withered rose in his hand. That clenches

Nothing except that the sun paints true,

And a woman is sometimes prophetic-minded.
And that's my romance. And, poet, you
Take it and mould it to suit your view;
And who knows but you may find it too

Come to your heart once more, as mine did.

An Arctic Uision.

WHERE the short-legged Esquimaux
Waddle in the ice and snow,

And the playful Polar bear
Nips the hunter unaware;

Where by day they track the ermine,
And by night another vermin,-
Segment of the frigid zone,
Where the temperature alone
Warms on St. Elias' cone;
Polar dock, where Nature slips
From the ways her icy ships;
Land of fox and deer and sable,
Shore end of our western cable,-
Let the news that flying goes
Thrill through all your arctic floes,
And reverberate the boast
From the cliffs off Beechey's coast,
Till the tidings, circling round
Every bay of Norton Sound,
Throw the vocal tide-wave back

To the isles of Kodiac.

Let the stately Polar bears
Waltz around the pole in pairs,

And the walrus, in his glee,
Bare his tusk of ivory;

While the bold sea-unicorn

Calmly takes an extra horn;
All ye Polar skies, reveal your
Very rarest of parhelia ;
Trip it all ye merry dancers,
In the airiest of "Lancers;"
Slide, ye solemn glaciers, slide,
One inch farther to the tide,
Nor in rash precipitation
Upset Tyndall's calculation.

Know you not what fate awaits you,
Or to whom the future mates you?
All ye icebergs make salaam,—
You belong to Uncle Sam !

On the spot where Eugene Sue
Led his wretched Wandering Jew,
Stands a form whose features strike
Russ and Esquimaux alike.
He it is whom Skalds of old
In their Runic rhymes foretold;
Lean of flank and lank of jaw,
See the real Northern Thor!
See the awful Yankee leering
Just across the Straits of Behring;
On the drifted snow, too plain,
Sinks his fresh tobacco stain,
Just beside the deep inden-
Tation of his Number 10.

Leaning on his icy hammer
Stands the hero of this drama,
And above the wild-duck's clamour,
In his own peculiar grammar,